Cookie Nabbing Mountain Monkeys

Ok, so here’s what happened. Louis and I checked into a hostel in McLeod outside of Darmasala to put our bags down until our next bus ride. Like most places in McLeod, there are balconies that overlook the beautiful Himalayas for miles. I had gone to one of the higher balconies of the hostel to look at the view and ran into some British men teaching English around India on some type of government grant. As I was talking to them, Louis came up looking for me, as we had to get our bags ready to go for our next bus ride (story to be told in another post). We start heading down the stairs towards our room, which faces the end of the staircase. Halfway down the stairs Louis whispers, “there’s a monkey in our doorway, and he has your mom’s bomb cookies.” We both froze when the monkey was leaving the doorway and noticed us staring at him, so he stared back.

Pause. So this was no zoo monkey. Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t a gorilla, but there was nothing tiny about this monkey. Bare butt, standing at least 3.14 feet tall, we had a serious problem.

Resume. I was fortunate enough to scramble to my video camera in time to catch the moment when Louis flips open his knife and screams, “Give the cookies back you stupid monkey!” This is where the situation got hectic, like how protest turns into a riot on the turn of a dime. Louis runs at the monkey wielding his 2 inch blade and a crazed look in his eyes as the monkey clearly thinks “…shit” and bolts away from Louis and jumps off the balcony onto an adjacent rooftop. The monkey had fled, leaving us only semi-victorious. We had routed the monkey but we had also lost our stash of homemade cookies. Furious, observing the mess of cookie crumbs that the monkey had left in stark mockery, we proceeded to curse the monkey, his kin, his monkey children, and all monkeys who may share any relation to our now mortal enemy.

Then the tides turned. As we paced around the balcony, damning the monkey and his devious ways, our nemesis returns. From the adjacent rooftop he locked into a dead stare with Louis. Naturally, Louis called him out, challenging our hairball of a rival. The monkey rudely interrupted Louis with a growl from depths which could only exist in a soulless creature. Louis, frightened like a schoolgirl in a horror film, runs from the monkey and I follow closely behind, locking ourselves in our small hostel room which proved to be the only sanctuary from the monkey.

We had officially lost. Not only had the monkey stolen our treasured cookies, but he had also chased us into our room striking the fear of God and of a rabies infection in our hearts. Now there is something you should understand about Louis. While there have been many times when he has lost a battle, he rarely passes up an opportunity to stick it to his opponent, one last time. The monkey proceeded to eat the crumbs he left the previous theft off of the floor in clear ridicule of our masculinity. Rabies or not, monkeys are not trained in strategic combat. Louis’ eyes suddenly light from his previous state of terror and lunges for the water bottle. Our window faces the balcony full of cookie crumbs, giving us a clear view of the monkey from a fortified position. Louis smiles devilishly, calling out “here monkey monkey….” He catches the monkey off guard with a squirt from the water bottle with sniper-like precision. The monkey turns to the window, pissed off and damp from Louis’ last stand, and jumps up to the window and growls, which again strikes us with fear. After numerous exchanges between Louis and the monkey, the Alamo ended in a stalemate.

Score: Cowboys, 0; Monkeys, 1

We shall have our revenge, dirty Indian mountain monkey. Beware.

Our Journey and Initial Days in India

Louis and I launched out of LAX, dressed very much like what I would imagine a military contractor would. Between our construction boots, Louis’ Iraqi flag baseball hat, and my flannel/leather jacket combo we certainly received stares as we spoke Arabic in the security line. After a long and comfortable flight on Virgin Atlantic (which we highly recommend) we arrived at Heathrow airport in London. As somewhat of a chain smoker, I do not favor flights over three hours. Irritated by my nicotine patch which has given me three blisters by the time we arrive in Heathrow, I am more than anxious to get into the airport and find the smoking section. Europe is full of smokers, I thought. They must have a smoking section.

Wrong. As one could imagine, I was not terribly pleased at the thought of a 6 hour layover in an airport too cheap to add a room for smokers, just to board an 8 hour flight which again, prohibits smoking. I intend to write a very strongly worded letter.

In need of a place to kill time, we make our way to the nearest/cheapest bar to post up for awhile. A few drinks and a chili potato later, our waitress is beginning to notice our squatting habit. Wandering the expansive refugee camp that Heathrow Airport seems to resemble, we attempt to keep ourselves occupied during this unpleasant layover

We board our next flight which will finally deliver us to Delhi. Unlike our previous flight, this flight path took us over some very interesting countries (especially to us) such as Afghanistan and Pakistan. From the air we could not spot a single city, only strings of farming towns sandwiched between overwhelming mountains.

After arriving in Delhi we took care of all the normal visa paperwork and went straight for the Inter-State Bus Terminal (ISBT) in Old Delhi. Our study abroad program at Delhi University didn’t start for 5 days so we decided to try and make it to Kashmir. After some poor planning and a few drinks later we were heading to Darmasala, the famous Tibetan area in North India. Our thought was that Kashmir is north, and so is Darmasala, so how could we possibly go wrong?

Way wrong. Darmasala and consequently McLeod (the town a stone throw north of Darmasala where the Dalai Lama lives) are surrounded by large, uncompromising Himalayan Mountains. After sleeping in quite possibly the shadiest bus depot I have ever been in (where dogs sniff sleeping people to see if they’re dead) and a 12 hour bus right on the “ordinary” line, we arrived tired, hungry, and dirty as can be imagined.

Tangent. I was warned against taking the “ordinary” bus line by some Indians at the ISBT, but I insisted that Louis and myself were hardcore explorers of the road less traveled and bought us two cheap “ordinary” tickets. The bus trip began with the bus leaving before Louis as actually in the bus, when I had to pull him in the door onto the bus as crowded as a commuter during rush hour. This reality never changed…for 12 hours. We had to strap our large bag on the roof of not-so-structurally-sound bus-like automobile. Louis was rather nervous about this until I reminded him of the rope that I always bring. Yea, that’s right, we used the stupid rope. “What are we gonna use rope for?” “You never know, those guys in the movies always have rope and they always end up using it.” If you don’t get the reference, watch Boondock Saints immediately.

So we arrive in Darmasala super early in the morning and realize we can’t get to Kashmir from where we are. It was a beautiful place, aside from their rampant monkey problem (see relevant post), where you can sit on a rooftop, eat lunch, have a beer, and listen to the Tibetan monks chant from an adjacent window. After lots of complaining and another couple drinks we decide to continue chasing our Kashmir aspirations and jumped on yet another 14 hour “ordinary” bus ride to a town called Manali which is the only town that can connect us to the bus line needed to get to Leh, a central town in Kashmir.

Introduction

In my view, there are few things more exciting than the rumble of an airplane during take-off. There is something unstable about it, something that disturbs the serenity and consistency of life. Just as I find myself settled in a life back home it is this very rumble which stirs me from my slumber. I smile a sinister grin as I look over at Louis who has the same expression, silent agreement that Round 2 of our international collegial escapades will be, without a doubt, far more intense than the last.

Louis and I have decided to go abroad for a second time. Our first bout of long-term international travel was to the Middle East, beginning in Cairo, Egypt in the dead of summer. It was through our mutual obsession with and disregard for survival that had bonded us. Now, almost two long years later, we turned our sites to South Asia: India, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Nepal, and Sri Lanka, plotting many risky (and possibly moronic) plans along the way.

So why the name Global Cowboys? It’s true, we don’t ride horses often, our belts are normal sizes, we typically stay away from large brim hats, and we rarely wear chaps. One day, a friend of mine termed us as ‘International Cowboys’ due to our demeanor and approach to travel. So I looked up cowboy in the dictionary and I found two semi-relevant definitions: 1. Adventurous hero, 2. A person with a disregard for risk or formalities. So I made a definition of my own.

Global Cowboy: An adventurous third world traveler with no regard for anything beyond novelty, thrill, and basic survival, with an intense desire to seek out the real heroes of our time.

So that’s where the name came from. Enjoy our stories, and buy a ticket while you’re at it. Our favorite is www.kayak.com. See you around.